They Call Me Blink
by Nerikla
Summary: The story of Kid Blink's first failed attempt as a newsie and his redemption by a cowboyhat wearing stranger.


It didn't used to be like this.

This is home now. Rows of beds, with scratchy linens and the gentle drones of snores lulling me to sleep. Rain splattering against windows drawn tight, the room cast in darkness. Every so often one of the boys gives a start as he sleeps, sometimes making an odd noise in the back of his throat and shifting. Just watching them as they sleep is a comfort to me. Specs, with his glasses dangling off of the corner of his bed, still wearing his suspenders. Racetrack, dreaming of horses and beer at the track that he loves so much. Itey, his feet shoved in the mouth of whatever poor newsie last came into the Lodging House. Jack, his brown hair mussed as he sleeps, murmuring words about headlines and calling out to the customers that walk past his closed eyes.

  


But then Brooklyn isn't like that. I never got in with Spot Conlon and his gang- no, they kicked me around a few times, but I was an outsider. The group had too many kids already and who in Brooklyn wants a one eyed kid, even a big one? Sure, I used to sell papers, but never so openly or successfully as I do now.

  


I owe that to Jack. Just watching him as he sleeps, the fingers of his hand twitching as though he's reaching out for a nickel, brings back the memories of the first time I met him. His body is browner than mine. He's built for living in the sun. He'll do well once he moves out West with his parents. Hell, he'll do well wherever he goes. He's just like that. 

  


Jack found me. I was getting myself into trouble again- I can't help it. My fingers itch and then I have the overpowering need to gamble with whoever offers to play. I ain't called Kid Blink for nothing. I don't even blink when a hand of cards is dealt. I keep my cool. Race and me always play each other for what little money we have. Sometimes I get cigars from him, but I don't smoke them. Snipe usually ends up with them, anyway. He can't keep his hands off of the things. Sometimes we can con the other newsies into playing with us, and Race and I rob 'em for all they're worth. They don't mind, most of the time- you don't get into a game with Race or me and expect to win.

  


So I was in Brooklyn, in a cast-off shed by the docks that the Brooklyn newsies used as a meeting house. I was in the corner, losing my poker game, pretty badly, hating the stink of the rotting House, and bluffing all through the game. The newsies thing wasn't working out so well for me in Brooklyn. That neighborhood is rougher than Manhattan. The people are colder, harder, don't have as much money and aren't as willing to lavish it on something as simple as a newspaper. I didn't have a slingshot like most of the boys, and while I'm quick enough on my feet and with my fists, it just wasn't good enough.

  


Spot and Jack were talking, official business from what I later was led to understand. Jack was dauntingly taller than Spot, but somehow less intimidating. Despite his size, Spot could make a twenty-five year old twice his size cry with one of his glares.

  


"That one yours?" The taller newsie drawled, with the slightly different accent of the kids from Manhattan. Spot's voice was harsher, more rough.

  


"No, Jacky-boy. He's new," Spot shrugged, watching idly as the two boys I was playing got dealt better and better hands. Someone was cheating, but I couldn't figure out who. Those two had it down to an art.

  


"Your boys do that to him?" I could hear their voices in the background. _Concentrate,_ I told myself desperately. I had to watch the game, not listen to the conversation behind me.

  


"Naw, he had the patch when we first found 'im," The blue-eyed boy scowled. The Brooklyn boys are tough, but they don't soak people for no good reason. Most of the time, anyway.

  


"You gonna let him join you?" Jack flipped his cowboy hat on, watching me intently. I could feel his eyes on the back of my neck. It was very unnerving.

  


"Maybe. He's a tough bastard, I'll give 'im that much. Lousy with a slingshot, though, I'd guess." Spot shrugged, fingering his own and rolling a marble around his fingertips.

  


"So were you, when you first started," Jack chuckled. No one ever dared to speak to Conlon like that- I wondered just how powerful this newsie was. He was the Manhattan leader, I knew, but I thought they were all soft as the inside of a new roll. 

  


He was suddenly beside me, and put his foot on the table in front of me, mussing the cards that were on it. The two Brooklyn newsies growled in protest, but kept their complaints to muttered curses as both Jack and Spot glared at them to be silent.

  


"What's yer name?" Jack asked me, leaning forward, not noticing as he knocked my hand of cards from the table to the ground. An ace of clubs, a two of hearts, a three of diamonds, a nine of spades, a king of hearts. All in all, a terrible hand. I was losing something awful.

  


This cowboy-hat wearing boy had a soft voice. Not soft and frightening like Spot's, but quiet and collected. He had an aura around him. I could see right away why he was leader of the Manhattan gang.

  


"They call me Blink," I replied gruffly, with more insolence than I had intended. Jack just watched my face, his deep eyes lingering on my eye patch. His hands were calloused, and I couldn't help but watch as he strummed them against his knee. He continued to watch me, and I just glared at him. Weeks of being shoved around and called names had hardened me. I wanted nothing to do with people who would call themselves friendly.

  


"You been to Manhattan?" Jack asked me softly. The deadly silence that had taken over the room warmed slightly, other boys muttering to each other from where they sat or perched. Spot still watched us. His gaze was unnerving. You could always feel it there, hotly on the back of your neck, right where the hair curls into your skin.

  


"Once or twice. Why?" I asked, bluffing as though I was calm though I was unable to comprehend the question. 

  


"Tight with his words. I like that. You any good at fighting?" Jack spoke more to the Brooklyn boys than to me. 

  


"With my fists," An insolent grin threatened to cross my face. It had been so long since I'd had an honest conversation with someone, the outer Brooklyn shell that I had enforced began to visibly crack.

  


At my grin, Jack's grew more broad. He saw something in me- saw who I was, who I had hidden since my departure from the docks in the hopes of earning more money as a newsie. That moment I wished both of my eyes worked well, just so that I could use my peripheral vision to watch the other boys in the room. I'm sure they would have been shocked to see the Manhattan leader and the new, one-eyed kid grinning at each other like lost friends.

  


"I'd like to see Manhattan," My words were shy at first, but to Cowboy's amusement I allowed myself a light chuckle. My hair had grown long since I'd left the docks, just past my ears. I really needed to wash it.

  


"You can tonight, Blink. How'd you like that? You c'n sleep in the Lodging House with the boys and me." The obvious surprise and relief on my face delighted him to no end. We both laughed again, the open sound such a comfort that I went to stand so abruptly, my chair fell over with a noisy crash.

  


"Get your stuff," Jack reminded me. What little I had lay in a bag at my feet. An extra shirt and pair of socks, plus nine cents were all my worldly possessions. 

  


"You got it, Cowboy," I flashed him another grin, boldly using his nickname. Though his eyebrows shot up, he gave me another approving look and lightly clipped me on the shoulder. His hand rested there briefly, until I scooped up my bag and tucked it safely under my arm. _Good riddance,_ I silently told the dim, damp walls and leering eyes of the Brooklyn boys. Spot watched us as we left, with nothing more than a questioning look in his glance as he and Jack silently spat into their hands, then shook. I left, following Jack unquestioningly.

  


The next morning I woke on the top bunk in a foreign Lodging House. My bag was at the foot of my bed, all of my sheets crumpled there along with it. There are moments when you can wake up and not have any idea where you are. It took me several panic-ridden moments to identify where I was, remembering the events of last night. I lay still, staring at a large crack in the ceiling, until someone smacked my hand. "Up, up!" It was an elderly voice- I vaguely remembered the man's kind smile as I had sleepily observed Jack flipping him twice the normal amount he lodged for. He had paid for me. I needed to pay him back, once I had the money. I didn't use the rough pegs driven into the stand as a makeshift ladder- I simply jumped off the bed.

  


I nearly landed on someone. "I'm Mush," The dark-haired boy laughed loudly, hauling me up and slapping me on the back. I adjusted my eye patch, grinning back.

  


"I'm Blink," I introduced myself. 

  


"I know," Mush looked like an excited child as he chuckled at my expression. He took me around, introducing me to the other Manhattan newsies. There were boys there aged from nine to nineteen, lanky and pudgy, on a whole much more friendly than the Brooklyn newsies. Then again, Jack had brought me here. I had been touched by an angel- one who peddled papes.

  
  
  
  



End file.
